Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Koran

“My piggy bank was made of glazed porcelain, the color of vomit, with a slit that allowed you to put coins in but not to take them out. My father had chosen it, this one-way piggy bank, because it matched his outlook on life—money is made to be saved, not spent.”

Moses recounts having broken open his piggy bank at age 11 and gathered its contents to visit to a prostitute. That Momo’s coin bank is vomit-hued, coupled with its design mirroring his father’s frugal fiscal philosophy manifests the gloom and distaste coloring Moses’s home environment; that he seeks the company of a prostitute at such a young age underscores his yearning for female company owing to his mother’s having abandoned the family shortly after his birth.

“For it was the general opinion that Monsieur Ibrahim was a sage. Probably because for at least forty years he had been the only Arab in a Jewish street. Probably because he smiled a lot and said little. Probably because he seemed untouched by the usual commotion of ordinary mortals, particularly Parisian mortals, never moving, like a branch grafted onto his stool, never clearing his stall for anyone to see, and vanishing between midnight and eight in the morning to nobody knew where.”

The Muslim Monsieur Ibrahim has garnered a high degree of respect as the sole grocer on the Jewish block where Moses and his father reside. Calm, quiet, and ever-reliable, Monsieur Ibrahim is a stereotypical “wise Oriental,” who always bears a pleasant countenance as he steadfastly serves the neighborhood, unfazed by his clientele’s constant flurry of activity. Perhaps his status as sage also derives from the aura of mystery surrounding his personal life.

“‘I’m not an Arab, Momo. I’m a Muslim.’

‘So then why do they say you’re this street’s only Arab if you’re not an Arab?’

‘In the grocery business, Momo, Arab means “open from eight in the morning until midnight and even on Sundays.’”

This short dialogue between Moses and Monsieur Ibrahim underscores the prevalent misconception that all Muslims are Arabs, and reveals the common Parisian derogatory slang “Arab”—a small neighborhood grocery store. Having slid into usage because many corner grocers in Paris are often North Africans from France’s former colonies, the reductionist term “Arab” creates confusion in Momo, especially when he learns that while Monsieur Ibrahim is indeed a Muslim who owns a neighborhood grocery, he’s not an Arab.